by Todd Young
“I don’t think I’ve seen you here before.”
“Marion …?”
“I did have a staffer who looked a little like you. Not nearly so handsome. But he dressed like a bum.”
She reached forward and fingered the lapel of his jacket. Then he realized she was talking about his clothes, his new suit. He smiled hesitantly, embarrassed. And by now he’d attracted more attention, a group of girls was walking toward him.
“Oh, my God!”
“Look how handsome he is!”
“Is this Riley?”
For some reason they had to touch the clothes. They said he looked great in blue. Then Jeff razzed his hair.
“Look at you!” he said.
Riley blushed. It was five or ten minutes before he could get to his desk.
Then Marion tasked him with another piece on Taylor. She wanted everything he could find, from Taylor’s childhood to the present. They would be working on a series of articles, she said, a biographical piece. So again he was in the glass room in the basement.
He’d been working for an hour or so when he came across a reference to his father. According to the article he was reading, Marlow had been at university with Taylor, at a place called Adler in Chicago. He knew that wasn’t right. Marlow had been to Yale. He frowned over it, thought perhaps Marlow studied at Adler before gaining entry to Yale, but then came across a second reference. In 2045, Taylor had been working as a line manager for Anthwars-Berstheim. Marlow had been one too.
“This can’t be right,” he muttered.
He knew his father worked for the CPF, and loosely speaking that meant he worked for the company, but he hadn’t ever worked for the corporation itself. His role within the CPF was an administrative one. It was a concession to the times. It wasn’t easy to find work, not well-paid work independent of the company, and so he’d taken the position, he said, when Riley asked. He didn’t like it, and he wasn’t happy about it. It was something he’d had to do.
Riley sat back and brushed his fingers through his hair.
There was a photo, a photo of Taylor and his father. Marlow looked like a young Gregory Peck, like Gregory Peck in that old black and white movie. They had their arms slung over one another’s shoulders, but the point the journalist was making was that they’d fallen out. And this was in 2045. Years before Riley was born. It wasn’t very long after Celia Grainger had taken office, which was when the company had cemented its power. Perhaps his father had got out of it back then, when he realized what was happening. Though that didn’t gel with anything he’d ever said.
Riley went on staring at the photo as though he was mesmerized. He didn’t know what to think. He was alone in the glass room. A cold stream of conditioned air was falling onto him from above, ruffling his hair. The bright fluorescent lights were buzzing. He suddenly felt very cold. He shivered, and then glanced behind him. The room was empty, the basement dark beyond the glass.
Ordinarily, he would have visited his father this weekend. He usually saw him on a Sunday, once every two or three weeks. He’d eat lunch with him, and they’d talk. The breach that had opened up when he asked about his mother was healing, or he’d imagined so. They got on well. But with Theo in the apartment he wouldn’t be able to go and see him. He didn’t want to leave Theo alone with Creig. Not again. If Creig was going to be home.
Without really realizing it, Riley had leaned forward. He’d typed in Yale and was looking at the homepage. He searched for his father’s records, but after ten minutes had found nothing. Then he searched the Adler site, and discovered Marlow had graduated there. In business, not arts.
He conducted a broad search on his father’s name, and now, almost two hours later, had reached a point where he knew his father was lying. About a lot of things. He’d worked for Anthwars-Berstheim for years. He’d been an m-level executive, whatever that meant, and had been responsible for putting down a riot. He’d sacked scores of workers in an industrial dispute. And had afterward been promoted. He’d worked in Miami, and then, for a year or so, in Washington itself. He’d been touted as a future CEO. But a year or so before Riley was born, he simply disappeared. Not that anyone said this. But there were no further references to him. As though he’d left the planet in 2049.
Riley went on searching. It occurred to him that Marion might track his searches. But he went on nevertheless. He’d never had any reason to doubt his father. When he was a child, he’d been his hero. They’d spoken about the company plenty of times. Riley had expressed his anger, his frustration and dismay. But now, as he thought back over it, he had to wonder if Marlow had done anything other than simply remain silent. He felt betrayed. Perhaps Theo was right. Perhaps his father did have the sort of money and power creating a clone would involve. A clone of his son. That would explain the house, the fact that he lived in a house in Manhattan. A perk of the job, he said. But what exactly did he do? If he’d been an executive back then, and was still working for the company now, surely he was more than an administrator. He had a house! And CPF officers attending that house. Reporting? As though he was what? A manager in the CPF? A commander? What exactly was he doing?
And why the hell would he want a clone of his son?
“Why the fuck would you do that to me?”
Riley hit a last promising link and flopped backwards.
A photo appeared on the screen. A photo of his father and his mother on their wedding day. They were standing on the steps of a church, his father in a dark suit, his mother in white. She held a bouquet of flowers. She was very pretty, and for the first time it occurred to him that he resembled her.
The caption read: The young executive and his wife.
Riley brushed his cheek and realized he was crying.
[] [] []
Akam was sure he wanted to ask July out on a date. He’d been thinking about it for weeks. He imagined them seeing a show. Perhaps they’d eat at a restaurant beforehand. He pictured kissing her on her doorstep. And told himself all over again that she was precisely the type of woman he liked. Strong and determined, calm and compassionate, and not the sort of person who played games. She had the ability to command, and he wanted a partner, an equal.
But that would never happen unless he asked her.
He’d resolved to do it today, and had pictured doing it this morning. But when he arrived at the hub, Erran was with her. They were in her office. The blinds were open. She was behind the desk, he on the other side. He had his hands behind his head. It looked as though they were chatting casually, but it might have been about anything.
Yesterday, Erran had gone to Riley’s apartment to speak to Theo. Akam knew he didn’t know everything that went on, and didn’t need to, but Riley was his friend. He hadn’t given him any reason to think people would be coming to his door. Erran should have asked Akam to go, or at least asked him if it was okay. But he hadn’t. Akam hadn’t even known he’d gone until he returned.
He said Theo had some crazy idea about being special. He’d spoken to him about the operation, about why he was near the incinerator. He’d taken him a new ID card. Akam didn’t see why that was necessary. His other ID card had the address in Seattle on it, which was logical, as that was where he was living. According to the records. But Erran said he would update those. He said he’d been to see all the clones. He’d wanted to ask them about Theo. And a friend of his, a girl called 3V3B, now Angela, had mentioned the thing about him thinking he was special. Some sort of delusion, Erran said. He said they’d have to watch Theo, that he might be deranged.
Akam had spent days in Theo’s company and he knew he wasn’t deranged. He frowned, then said this. Erran had simply smirked. “You should hear him now,” he said.
Akam went back to work, but later realized that Erran had left again. He didn’t know where he’d gone. He’d been out most of the day. It wasn’t the first time this had happened. A week or two back, a note had fallen from his pocket. Meet me at the tower — F. it had said. Erran had been
out for a few hours. It might have been a legitimate meeting, but Akam knew of no contact who could be connected to the “F.” He’d taken it home and pinned it to his fridge, where it was, even now.
There were other things too. His behavior at times. Last week, he’d had an argument with Tom. Tom was a tech specialist, one of the more valuable members of the team. Erran had suddenly blown up at him. They’d been working on something together, huddled over a terminal, and he’d suddenly raised his voice. He stood back and berated Tom. He told him he was lazy and that his attitude was off. Tom had listened in silence. He’d simply nodded. But as Erran turned away, he caught Akam’s eye, almost as though he was saying, “Do you see this? There’s something going on with him, isn’t there?”
Akam didn’t know. Not really. He suspected it was jealousy, or that it might be. But yesterday, when Erran returned after leaving again, he had been disheveled, as though he’d been in a fight. It didn’t make any sense. But because he was second in command, no one commented. July was in her office and didn’t see him. But Akam had to wonder what he’d got up to, where he’d been. Perhaps he ought to look into it, he told himself. He spent so much of his free time walking around. Perhaps he ought to follow Erran and see what he was doing.
He knocked on July’s door. It was open. Erran had walked out more than an hour ago.
“Hey,” he said.
“Oh, hi,” She set her pen down and lifted her eyebrows. She smiled. “What can I do for you?”
It was now or never. “I was wondering. Saturday. Would you like to have lunch with me?” He’d decided lunch would be less problematic than dinner.
She blinked, but then smiled again. She looked pleased. “We could do that.”
He nodded, a resolute nod. Then he knew he was smiling himself. He had one hand on the door handle and felt like an awkward teenager. He hadn’t thought beyond this point, and didn’t know whether to stay or go.
“Where were you thinking?” she said.
“There’s this place called Fratelli’s. It’s by the Hudson. On the boardwalk.”
“An Italian place?”
“Yeah.”
“Sounds great. You want to meet there, or …?”
“I’ll pick you up.”
“Okay. Well, you know where I live.”
“Right.” He nodded again. Then he thought of Erran. If he was worried, then surely July ought to know. “Look. Could I speak to you about something?”
She nodded.
He stepped in and closed the door.
17
Susen was ready to go when Riley rang the bell. She told him to come up, said she wouldn’t be a minute, though in fact she could just as easily have gone down. But she didn’t often have visitors, and it was nice to have someone in the apartment.
He was dressed in blue, in a navy blue suit, and he looked spectacular, the suit taut on his muscular body, his face so extraordinary he might have been a teen idol.
“Come in,” she said.
He ducked his head and glanced around, his eyes darting here and there. “Boy. This is a big place.”
She nodded, and then watched, amused, as he turned it over in his mind, the thought that she had this sort of money. The living room looked fantastic. The designer had worked from a palette of pale blues and pinks. Here and there were accents in chrome. She gestured at an armchair and he took a seat. He perched on the edge of it, his hat brim in his hands.
“I only work at the flower store for something to do. Would you like a drink?”
He said yes, a vodka and soda, and she fixed it for him. He drank a couple more at the club, before they stepped out onto the floor. It was just as she’d pictured it in her mind, the interested eyes of others turned on them. He held her gently, perhaps a little too gently, but she didn’t want to push him. He might be nervous or he might be a deviant, but it no longer mattered. She’d decided to do what Kristin wanted. There was no point being sentimental about it. It would be easier if she simply got it over with. He’d mentioned a roommate, a young man called Creig. She’d contacted him this afternoon. She hadn’t told him what she wanted, or talked about Riley, but had arranged to meet with him on Sunday. He was a financial advisor, so she didn’t think she’d have any trouble. Not when she mentioned the three hundred fifty thousand dollars Kristin had transferred into her account.
“Oh, it’s our song,” she said.
They’d danced a single dance. A waltz. It was very slow, but that was what she liked about Dennison’s. There wasn’t any jitterbug dancing. It was all love songs.
“Our …?” he said, but as the vocalist began to sing, he understood.
When I see my love I get but, butterflies,
Sweet, sweet, butterflies,
My little butterfly.
She comes to me at night and sings a lullaby,
But my butterfly,
My little love.
She moved a little closer and took a deep whiff of his cologne. It was sweet and heady, and she closed her eyes for a moment, drifting. He seemed different tonight, distracted by something. He’d barely spoken in the car and then had seemed stunned when they walked in, surprised to see the band and the size of the place. The ceiling was high, festooned with crystal chandeliers. Fragments of mirrored glass peppered the walls. The main space was carpeted in red, with leather chairs and marble-topped tables. The dance floor was big enough for thirty couples.
As the song moved into the refrain, she glanced up at him. He looked miles away.
“How was work?”
“Fine,” he said.
“I spent the day at home. Watched 3TV.”
He nodded, and then stepped on her toe. She jumped back awkwardly. For some reason they were always klutzy. He stepped on her again during the next song. And then, a few minutes later, it happened a third time.
“Is there something wrong with you?”
He shook his head, but for some reason looked annoyed, as though it was her fault.
“You’re supposed to be leading.”
“I … I know. But you have to …”
“What?”
“It doesn’t matter.” He glanced at the floor, and then said, “Do you want to sit down?”
She agreed, but really, she’d come here to dance. He vanished into the men’s room and then the waiter appeared. She said they were fine for drinks, but when Riley came back he ordered another.
“You trying to get drunk?”
He shook his head. Didn’t speak. But simply glanced across the room, toward the bar, his brows knitted. She followed his gaze, but there was nothing to see. The band began to play a song she particularly liked. She looked at him hopefully, but he was staring blankly.
“What’s on your mind?”
“Nothing … I …”
She wanted to ask about his father, but he most likely wouldn’t know. If his father’s position was public, he’d never have been investigated. The bureaucracy would have put a halt to it. Something would have been done, but it would have been done quietly. Now, he would be on 3TV. Kristin would make sure of it. They wouldn’t publicize his castration. The powers that be thought that sort of thing was too distasteful for public consumption. But they’d make a big deal out of his imprisonment. And his father, whoever he was, would hear about the surgery. He wouldn’t be able to stop that from going ahead.
Riley was annoying her now. He’d barely spoken all night. She smiled quietly to herself, thinking of what was in store for him. He looked so fucking spectacular in his suit, but how would he feel when he had no balls? His scrotum would go too. She knew what happened. During her training, she’d expressed curiosity, and her supervisor had supplied her with a 3vid of Pete’s operation, her faithless boyfriend. That had been a laugh. She thought it was just the balls, but they trimmed his scrotum back. He’d been left with nothing. Just a cock. She smiled again.
He frowned. “What’s funny?”
“Nothing.” But she smiled once more, this time coyly
, her eyes toying with his.
[] [] []
Riley was pretty sure there was nothing to laugh at. Did she think he was funny? Odd in some way? He hated it when girls smiled like that, as though at some secret joke. It made him uneasy.
He was sure of one thing, and that was that she couldn’t dance. She was hopelessly uncoordinated. He’d felt like he was holding a mannequin, a mannequin with legs determined to go in odd directions. He quite liked to dance, and could probably have enjoyed himself. But he’d had an awful day, finding that stuff on his father. And then Marion had questioned him about taking so long. He’d had to work late. He’d completely forgotten about this evening until he got home. Then Theo said Creig had gone out with his friends, to a game, and he remembered it was Friday and that they’d made a date.
Theo ought to be okay without Creig in the apartment, but he hadn’t been very happy when he said he said he had to go out again. When he told him it was a girl, Theo pouted and said, “What girl?” Riley had felt like hugging him, like taking him in his arms. He’d wanted to kiss him, but he hadn’t. All day long he’d been thinking of their kiss. It kept recurring to him and he kept thrusting it away. But when he walked through the door and saw Theo he felt his breath catch. Something hooked in his chest. Theo was wearing the navy suit too, white shirt, red tie, and he looked spectacular. Riley couldn’t believe he looked that good himself. Theo had slicked his hair back with some product. It looked damp. He’d really wanted to kiss him. Hold him. But when he mentioned Susen, Theo went quiet. He wouldn’t look at him. He said he’d been watching Days of Our Lives and he wanted to talk about that. He wanted to know why Karen was sleeping with Marshall when she was married to Phil. Riley had simply raised his eyebrows, and then blown air threw his cheeks, exasperated. He said he couldn’t explain. But then Theo asked about Susen again. He wanted to know if she was married. Riley knew where he was going, and as a joke said, “Yeah, Theo, I’m sleeping with her.” Theo shut himself in the bedroom. He wouldn’t come out. Riley had had to go.
